THE SECRET DOCUMENT
Phil reached the ballroom just as the music had stopped, and looked
quickly about for Sydney. He saw him at the far corner of the room and
hurried to his side.
“Syd, get your coat and hat and meet me at the door, quick!” he
whispered excitedly. “I’ll stay to explain if necessary,” he added,
glancing at Helen, the centre of a group of officers.
Sydney would have asked for an explanation, but a look at his friend’s
face showed him that it was a matter of grave concern. Helen became
suddenly conscious of something unusual. She had caught the danger
signals in the excited faces of the midshipmen as she glanced their way
just as Sydney was on the point of leaving.
Phil knew that some explanation would be necessary. “Go on, Syd,” he
urged; “I’ll tell Miss Tillotson and then join you.”
Sydney had gone, picking his way across the crowded room. Helen was
standing beside Phil, her eyes dilating with apprehension. “What is
it?” she exclaimed in a low voice. “Has anything happened?”
Phil cast about for appropriate words to explain something which he
himself could only guess.
“Where can I leave you?” he began tentatively; “for I must hurry if we
are to be of any service.” The officers who a moment before were with
her had gone.
“Can’t I go with you?” Her face was flushed and her eyes bright with
excitement at the thought.
“I don’t even know where we are going,” he replied, his voice
deprecating the idea of her accompanying them. “It might be something
serious. I couldn’t think of putting you in any danger.”
Phil was relieved to see Lieutenant Winston making his way toward them.
He waited impatiently until Winston reached Helen’s side and then
hurried away without a word of further explanation.
Outside the brightly lighted entrance Takishima was waiting; three
rikishas stood ready, and the three classmates lost no time in jumping
in. Takishima quietly gave the directions, and the next moment they
were rolling rapidly along the evenly paved boulevard. Takishima’s
rikisha was in the lead, while Sydney and Phil trailed after in single
file. The Japanese policeman ran along at Takishima’s side.
Phil was in an agony of suspense. He longed to ask what the trouble
was, but to do so he would have had to shout at the top of his voice.
He thought over all the things that might have happened, becoming more
anxious as the minutes dragged by. He saw that his coolie was lagging
behind, while Sydney’s kept close up to Takishima.
Phil called loudly the word he had heard meant hurry, “haiaku,” but the
distance between Sydney and himself slowly increased.
Phil’s coolie was evidently giving out; he could not keep up the pace
set by Takishima. Phil was on the point of getting down and running to
catch up. He was sure he could easily overtake them.
Suddenly Phil’s rikisha stopped, and the coolie lowered his shafts
to the ground, breathing heavily and wiping his face with a large
handkerchief. The lad glared at the Japanese angrily and roundly
berated him for his incompetence, but he soon realized that he was but
wasting precious moments; his companions were now far ahead. He gazed
about him anxiously. The narrow street was dark and deserted, the road
ahead was empty. Takishima and Sydney had turned to the right or left,
but in which direction Phil had not seen. Planting his cap firmly on
his head the midshipman ran swiftly down the street.
A cry for help came feebly to his ears. The lad stopped abruptly, his
heart beating wildly, for the cry was in English. He saw he was in the
old business section of Tokyo; the houses were mostly two-storied.
Again a cry came to him faintly, as if a man were being throttled in
the house beside him. Phil sought in vain for an entrance, shouting a
word of encouragement. What could it be? Was an American sailor being
robbed? There was no room for further doubt; a high piercing cry of a
man in mortal fear filled the air, and suddenly died abruptly away.
There was evidently not a moment to lose, but where was the entrance?
A dark alley caught his eye a few feet ahead, and down this narrow
lane Phil turned quickly. A door on the right stood open; a flight of
steep steps led to the second floor. Floundering noisily in the dark he
rushed on. Reaching the landing, he perceived a light shining through
a chink in the farther wall. With pulse throbbing loudly in his ears
he stopped guardedly to listen. A scratching noise of a struggle came
indistinctly to him.
What should he do? How many ruffians must he face? The lad suddenly
remembered that he carried no arms, while the robbers inside must be
well provided. While he yet hesitated a door suddenly opened, and
the hallway was flooded with light. On the floor of a large room two
men were struggling, while on the threshold stood a Japanese quietly
watching the unequal battle. His back was turned to Phil. Spellbound,
stupefied, the youngster stood scarcely out of arm’s reach of this
trim, stocky figure, garbed in the usual costume of a man of the middle
class. Phil saw that he must act. To retreat would only cause his
discovery and then the little Japanese would be forced to attack. Phil
held himself rigid.
Silently he edged nearer the unconscious observer of the struggle; the
man on the floor was now lying almost motionless, while the figure
above him clung closely to him. Phil had reached the very edge of the
door, and his victim was yet unconscious of his presence. For the
fraction of a second the lad hesitated. A thought as terrifying as
unbidden had come into his mind. Were these men detectives? If so he
would be assaulting the Japanese police. Then all precaution was swept
aside, for he remembered the cry for help was in English. He could
not tell whether the victim on the floor was a sailor or not, but his
spirit of chivalry spurred him on to take the part of the weaker.
[Illustration: _THE JAPANESE GENTLEMAN WENT DOWN_]
A loose board under Phil’s feet suddenly creaked with a ghastly sound,
causing the man at the door to start and turn his face toward the hall.
In that fleeting second Phil read authority and character in the quiet
aristocratic face, and the next moment the Japanese gentleman went down
under a sledge-hammer blow from Phil’s fist. The midshipman had mapped
out his battle plan. He saw the man who had nearly squeezed out the
life of the victim on the floor was powerful, and in a hand-to-hand
fight Phil with all his muscular development might be worsted. The lad
could take no chances. The first blow had been delivered so quietly
that the second man had not divined what was going on behind him until
a blow on the head from a heavy chair in the midshipman’s hands caused
him to relax his muscular fingers from the blackened throat of Robert
Impey.
Phil gazed terrified about him. Three men lay motionless on the floor,
while two of them had been stricken by his own hands. The first to fall
lay deathly pale on the floor. Phil leaned over and listened for his
heart beat. He had delivered a blow which he knew could hardly kill,
but in the stillness of the room he would not trust his own judgment.
At the man’s side, as if it had fallen from his hand, lay a large white
envelope. Phil grasped it eagerly. The seal was broken, and inside
lay a dozen official sheets of Japanese writing. On the outside were
great black characters and the gold seal of the Emperor, now torn and
mutilated.
Phil’s heart rose in his throat as he suddenly realized the meaning
of the attack on Impey. These men whom he had just rendered senseless
were employees of the navy department--secret service men. They had
tracked Impey, believing he had the stolen document. The lad, in a
fever of dread, crossed to the table and extinguished the light, and
then he crept away down the creeking dark stairs, his brain in a
tumult. Reaching the street, he gazed fearfully about him. The place
was deserted. He walked a block and then broke into a run, fleeing from
the horror behind him. Not knowing which way to turn, he kept straight
on until he saw several rikishas coming toward him, when he abruptly
turned to his right and ran faster.
“Phil! Hold up! Wait!” came joyfully to him as he slackened speed and
allowed his companions to overtake him.
“We’ve wasted nearly a quarter of an hour looking for you!” Sydney
exclaimed as Phil trotted breathlessly at his side. “What have you been
doing?”
Phil evaded the question, breathing heavily as an excuse for not
talking. A terrible guilt was on his mind. The secret and important
letter lost by the messenger Oka, containing that which if known by
America might strain the relations between the two countries, lay next
his rapidly beating heart.
“Where is it? What is it?”
“Taki says it’s a riot,” Sydney returned. “There you are!” he
exclaimed, pointing. They had emerged into the lighted thoroughfare,
and Phil’s question was answered. Scarcely four blocks down the street
a great crowd could now be seen completely filling the street.
Phil’s pulses beat faster. A riot--and American sailors the cause! At
this time it might lead to grave consequences.
Takishima had stopped precipitously; it was too dark to see his face,
but his voice expressed quite distinctly the anxiety he felt.
“How has this happened? Some one shall suffer for this blunder!” he
exclaimed angrily.
The mob was pressing toward the brightly lighted entrance to the
theatre, but the doors were closed, barring its entrance. Though
there were many policemen present, they seemed unable to control the
ever-increasing crowd, whose angry voice could be heard, raised ever
louder and louder.
“This is a case for soldiers!” Takishima had cried out in English,
and in his excitement talking to the little guide, who stood mute and
mystified.
Across the street Takishima darted, telling the midshipmen to wait
where they were.
“With all their training for discipline, the Japs are just like any one
else.” Sydney’s voice betrayed his excitement, but he felt he must say
something to relieve the tension. “Winston should be here to see this.
No riots in Japan!”
Phil gulped hard. “What’s happening inside?” he gasped. All thoughts of
the two men he had rendered unconscious were forgotten.
“There are two hundred of our men in Tokyo; if they hear of this they
will come on a run from all over the city.” Sydney’s diagnosis was not
reassuring.
“A fight between our men and a mob would mean indemnity, for some of
them would be sure to be killed and wounded,” Phil said tensely. “Do
you recall the Chile trouble, when we nearly came to war over just
this same kind of thing?” Phil’s thoughts were pessimistic. Both lads
were aware of the terrible possibilities. They thoroughly understood
the workings of their sailors’ minds. Once they heard their companions
were in trouble the American sailormen would flock to the rescue. “My
countrymen--right or wrong,” is ever their motto.
The impatient midshipmen could stand the strain of inaction no longer.
“Where is Taki? Why doesn’t he return? Where did he go?”
Forgetting in their excitement the inability of their guide to speak
English, they were pulling him violently by the arm toward the rioters,
but the little policeman had received his orders, and remained firmly
planted where Takishima had left him.
The naval officer suddenly reappeared.
“I have telephoned,” was his reassuring greeting. “There’s a back
entrance to the theatre.”
The four were retracing their steps. An alley, dimly lighted and
deserted, opened before them and, led by Takishima, they rushed down
and through its many turnings. A heavy door barred their further
progress. With hearts beating tumultuously they listened to the babel
of angry voices from within.
The door was locked. The combined effort of the four failed to discover
a weakness in the solid wood.
The midshipmen gazed wildly about for a means of breaking the lock.
Takishima soon solved the difficulty. The policeman, agile as a cat,
was scaling the side of the house. Above him was a window through which
a light was shining. Breathlessly and impatiently they waited while
he climbed slowly upward. Then he disappeared through the window and
after a few anxious moments the door was opened and they rushed within,
securely locking the door after them. Up the stairs they ran, and then
suddenly the full magnitude of the situation burst upon them.
A score or more of American sailors had captured the theatre stage and,
with clubs and sticks stripped from the scenery, were holding at bay
several hundred infuriated Japanese.
Phil recognized O’Neil and Marley in the foremost ranks of the
defenders, and his heart sank, for he realized that O’Neil would not
abet a fight without real provocation.
“You go to your men. I’ll hold the crowd in check until the soldiers
come,” Takishima exclaimed, as he threw off his cape and stood in full
evening uniform, his golden epaulettes glistening brightly and his war
medals sparkling on his breast. He walked out fearlessly between the
sailors and the clamoring crowd. Phil and Sydney had placed themselves
between him and their own men to protect him from a chance blow.
“Back, men, all of you. Do you realize what you are doing?” Sydney’s
and Phil’s voices were tense with anger and excitement as they
pressed the sailors away from their foes. “You, O’Neil, leading this
disgraceful row!” Phil cried out accusingly and in tones that at the
same time expressed the lad’s bitter disappointment upon seeing the
boatswain’s mate involved in what appeared to him to be a disorderly
fight against well-intentioned Japanese citizens.
“It wasn’t O’Neil, sir, what started it.” Bill Marley’s voice was
raised excitedly. “This is what they was dragging on the stage, sir,
wiping their clogs on, and the man what carried it wasn’t no Jap. I can
take my oath on that. He ‘beat it’ when he seen there was a row on.”
The midshipmen opened their eyes in amazement as Marley showed the
tattered American flag in the defense of which the American sailors
from all over the theatre had collected.
“Never mind that now!” Phil waved for silence as several excited voices
were raised expressing forcibly the desire to be allowed to clean out
the place and revenge the insult to their flag.
“Can’t you see by Marley’s evidence that it was fixed up on you?”
Phil exclaimed, grasping at a straw. “The man with the flag was not a
Japanese. Who was he? A sneaking, cowardly foreigner, anxious to bring
about a conflict between you American sailors and the citizens of
Japan.” Phil was eloquent in his anger and mortification. “And you, led
into the trap like lambs. Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?”
“What could we’ve done, sir?” An oppressive silence had descended upon
the sailors; but a single one mustered up courage to half defend his
companions’ actions. “We couldn’t just sit tight and watch; now could
we, sir?” This last was said appealingly.
“No. I suppose it was natural,” Phil admitted grudgingly, “but now you
know that you’ve been ‘buncoed,’ just turn about there and we will try
to smuggle you out without another disturbance.”
Takishima was at a loss to understand the cause of the trouble. His
great fear was that it had come about through the general ill feeling
being spread broadcast in Japan by the Japanese newspaper, the
“Shimbunshi.” As Marley called the midshipmen’s attention to the flag,
the lieutenant turned about hastily, his face showing perplexity.
“An American flag,” he exclaimed in English. “I can’t understand. This
is a scene from our last war. Could it have been a plot? You say the
man who carried it was a foreigner. Yes, it was a plot, devised to
bring on a fight between you and our people.”
Meanwhile Impey, as he lay unconscious on the floor of his office with
the two men who had endeavored to take from him the stolen document,
themselves senseless near him, might, if he had known, felt proud of
the plot which had all but succeeded in precipitating a riot. While
the events at the theatre were taking place the two defeated secret
service men slowly came to consciousness. Impey lay inert, half dead
on the floor. They rose defeated, mystified, for neither had seen his
assailant. The precious document had gone. They quietly slunk off down
the stairs to lay before their chief, Captain Inaba, the sad story of
their failure after having the lost paper within their grasp.
The American sailors on the stage were lost in admiration at the
dignified manner in which Lieutenant Takishima stemmed the tide of
anger. At first beyond control, threatening to attack the score of
sailormen who had outraged the spirits of those who had fallen in their
last war, the crowd grew quieter until the people suddenly became
silent, intently listening to the lieutenant’s calmly spoken words.
What he was saying the Americans did not know, but they saw that he
held their attention upon an order worn upon the breast of his full
dress uniform. It was the order of the rising sun; the sacred emblem of
their Emperor was the mystic talisman that cast an hypnotic spell over
that vast assemblage and forced them to listen to reason.
“That’s the most marvelous thing I’ve ever seen.” Sydney’s excited
whisper brought forth what was almost a cheer from the astounded
Americans.
The Japanese audience gave way; moving as one man back toward their
seats, their upturned faces were again good-natured.
Loud cheers of “banzai” echoed through the theatre, while several
strong voices were raised at different points of the house, followed by
cries of agreement from the multitude.
Takishima had turned toward the Americans, and was speaking to them in
English.
“My people are sorry that this has occurred, and desire to say that
they honor the Americans for their patriotism. They did not understand
the reason for the interruption, but now that they see, they wish to
beg the pardon of the sailors.” Phil as spokesman answered by proposing
three cheers for the Japanese nation, which were given with a will, and
the irrepressible Marley waved his flag, which had been the innocent
cause of the trouble, high in the air.
The audience filed out of the theatre in orderly fashion, and as the
wide doors were thrown open the midshipmen saw drawn up across the
street a company of regular soldiers, those who had been summoned by
Takishima.
“I would advise getting your men out by the back entrance.” Takishima
was smiling, but his face was pale and his dark eyes bright with
suppressed excitement. The lads noticed that the hand which raised
his cloak trembled violently. Then they realized for the first time
that the ordeal through which this youngster, scarcely a year older
than themselves, had passed, had been one requiring every ounce of his
nerve and grit. One mistake and the tide might have been turned against
him, and the sacred order on his breast, the “rising sun of the second
class,” would have been defiled and himself dishonored in the eyes of
his brother officers.
“Although Taki speaks our language the working of his mind is as
different from ours as is the East from the West,” said Sydney. “What
have we in our country symbolic of majesty or power?” he asked in a
low voice. “If you or I had attempted to quell a disturbance in a New
York theatre what could we use to bring the scattered ideas of the vast
assemblage together?”
Phil silently pointed to the flag as yet firmly clutched in Marley’s
hand. Sydney nodded, half convinced only that his countrymen’s
patriotism could be aroused by it to the point of obedience to a
stripling’s orders.
A blush of shame crept into Phil’s face as he suddenly remembered the
secret document in his pocket. Would it not be a courteous act to give
it over at once to Takishima to restore it to those who were anxiously
searching through the entire city and who would be forever disgraced if
it fell into the hands of the agents of a foreign power?